Thieves Fall Out (13 page)

“Why aren’t
you
afraid?” asked Pete, and he lit a cigarette, soothed suddenly by the taste of American tobacco.

“I am educated man,” said Osman stiffly. “I do not fear such things. Besides,” he added, holding up a small pendant that he wore about his neck inside his robe, “I wear this. Annubis, god of the dead, protects me.” His wide, long-toothed smile gleamed in the pale light as Pete perfunctorily examined the tiny figure of the hawk-headed god.

“How much longer will it take?” he asked as they began their journey again, Osman leading the way nimbly over fallen rock. There was not room enough in most places for two men to walk abreast.

“An hour, Sir Wells, no more.” He cocked his head skyward at the moon and said, “Soon she will be gone.”

“The moon?”

“Yes. It will be difficult to travel then, in the dark. You have no light?”

“Only a cigarette lighter, which isn’t much use,” said Pete.

Osman stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps the dark is better. Stars give light.” He paused. “What was that?” he whispered, fear in his voice.

Pete strained but could hear nothing. He was about to say something when the old man silenced him with a gesture. “Quick!” he whispered. “In here.” And he ducked into one of the caves. Pete followed him.

He was forced to crouch a little to get inside the door, but once inside he could stand erect with ease. He lifted one hand and touched the smooth stone overhead; the ceiling was only a few inches above his head.

He could hear Osman breathing hoarsely beside him in the blackness. He tried to say something but the old man snorted softly, warningly. They stood for several long minutes in the dark close chamber. Then Osman whispered, “Light.”

Pete fumbled through his pockets until he found his cigarette lighter. He snapped it on. To his surprise the walls were brilliant with paintings, as bright and glowing as they had been three thousand years before. Every inch of wall was painted. At the end opposite the door by which they had entered was another, smaller opening.

Osman looked out into the ravine. Satisfied, he turned to Pete. “All is well,” he said.

“What did you hear?”

“I thought I heard the men walking, but I was wrong.” He grinned in the flaring light and pointed to the door at the back of the chamber. “It is there they place the mummy.”

Pete shuddered. “Let’s get the hell out of here.” A warm blast of air snuffed out his lighter. He cursed sharply and lit it again, just as a tall figure stepped through the door of the burial room, the face shrouded in a robe.

Osman shrieked harshly like a frightened parrot. The lighter went out again. Pete made a dash for the door, striking his head in a sharp blow that made him reel. Clutching his forehead, momentarily blinded, he staggered out into the ravine.

Then they were upon him.

At first he could not tell how many they were. He fought blindly, swinging wildly from left to right, striking hard flesh and bone with his fists while hands clutched at him, tried to throw him off balance.

His head cleared as he struggled. He was able to break clear for a moment, and in that moment he saw three men in Arab dress closing in on him.

In the moonlight the knife that one was carrying flashed against the black sky.

He ran. But it was no use. Rocks tripped him. He stumbled, fell, got to his feet; then they had him surrounded, were closing in on him.

He fought desperately but they were too heavy. They overpowered him with the weight of their bodies, heavy Arab bodies swathed in robes. He got only a blurred impression of the faces. All were strangers to him, dark, big-nosed men with black gleaming eyes.

Two of them held him on his back, their bodies like stones on his chest, holding him flat to the ground though he still twisted and fought, his arms pinioned at his sides. The third man stood over him for a moment, and then, with a hard hand, struck him across the face. His neck cracked. Stars swam in his head and for a moment he nearly lost consciousness; but then, with an effort, he brought his eyes into focus again. The slap had suddenly cleared his brain. He was no longer an unreasoning trapped animal. He stopped struggling.

“What do you want?” he asked, his own voice sounding far away in his ears.

The Arab who had hit him only grunted. He was going through his pants pockets.

“I haven’t got much money,” said Pete, “but…” As he talked to them, he found he could move his right hand. The Arab holding him on that side lay across his arm and shoulder, but his hand and wrist were left free. It was in the right-hand coat pocket of his jacket that he had put the pistol. Carefully, stealthily, he moved his hand toward the revolver, talking all the time, promising them money if they let him go.

The Arab who had been searching him muttered something to the others. For a second he was afraid they would search his jacket before he could get his hand to the gun, but they were no longer interested in robbing him. The two men holding him threw their weight even more heavily on his chest and belly, holding his arms tight under them. This shift in position brought Pete’s hand closer to the revolver. With a sudden move, he could get to it and fire. With the tips of his fingers he felt the hard metal. His hand was already in the pocket.

When he saw what the Arab was doing, though, he froze in terror, the revolver forgotten.

The man had taken out his long knife and, with a professional twist, cut Pete’s belt in two. The other two got a scissors grip on his legs as his trousers were opened. Then the man raised his knife hand and in a flash of light brought it down.

The rest was confusion. Pete gave a blood-curdling yell and with all his strength grabbed the pistol, firing it without aiming. The shot was like thunder echoing in the stone ravine.

The Arab with the knife stepped back, startled. One man shrieked and the other leaped to his feet. Pete fired again, under cover of the wounded Arab. The one with the knife grasped his belly with both hands; the third scrambled up the side of the ravine and was gone.

Pete shoved clear of the dead man who lay across him. In the moonlight, blood flowed black upon the stone. He got to his feet quickly and, taking careful aim, fired two more shots into the crouched figure of the Arab opposite him. The man rocked back and forth gently and then, with a sound of retching, fell face downward on the ground.

For a long moment Pete stood dazed between the two dead men, his breath coming in great gasps and his head swimming. He was afraid he might be sick, but the nausea passed.

He sat down shakily on a boulder and examined the inside of his thigh where the Arab’s knife had cut him. The blood was flowing fast but the cut, he saw, was not deep, only a scratch. He wadded his handkerchief over the wound and tied it fast with the remains of his belt.

Then, just as he was about to search the dead Arabs, the moon set and the darkness suddenly closed in about him, warm and protecting. By starlight, the white stone glowed dully, and all objects were indistinct and vague against it.

When the bleeding had stopped a little, he got to his feet and climbed, very carefully, the wall of the gully.

He found himself in unfamiliar country. The mountains were close by; the river was at least a dozen miles away. Luxor was a blur of light in the distance, north of where he stood.

Finally he made out, some miles to the south, a cluster of darkened buildings circling a larger one with lighted windows. The light shone steadily: electric light. Since this was the only sign of civilization on his side of the river, he headed toward it, walking slowly over fields of stubble, across shallow irrigation trenches filled with stinking mud and water.

Occasionally he would see figures moving, but when he called out to them to ask his way, they fled without answer into the shadows.

The sky was gray with morning when he reached the Libyan Inn.

Pete collapsed onto the bed, hardly aware of what was happening. From far away he could hear Anna moving about the room, but even the sting of iodine on his leg did not arouse him. Without a word, he fell asleep. He did not open his eyes again until late afternoon. She was standing beside the bed with a tray of food. She smiled. “You haven’t moved for hours,” she said, putting the tray down beside the bed.

“Hours?” he repeated stupidly, his mind still fogged with sleep. He was conscious that the room was hot, that he was sweating uncomfortably. He sat up and she placed a pillow behind him. “What time is it?”

“Nearly four. Come, eat this. You must be weak. I think you lost a lot of blood.”

He glanced at his thigh where the bandage covered the scratch. His trouser leg was stiff with dried blood. He moved his leg carefully, flexing the muscles. Everything worked properly, though there was a soreness about the wound.

Anna sat down on the edge of the bed while he ate. “You gave the inn a great surprise,” she said. “They wanted to know if they should call the police.”

“What did you say?”

“I said it was up to you.”

“Do you think they did?”

“I think so. Does it matter?” She looked at him directly, her blue eyes serious.

He shook his head. “No, I guess not. I object to the attention but that can’t be helped.”

“What happened, Peter?”

He told her, as best he could. Already the wild chase in the tombs seemed like a nightmare only half remembered. She listened intently. When he had finished, unable to recall exactly how he’d got to the inn from the tombs, she asked the obvious question: Had it been planned?

“I don’t know,” he said wearily. “I haven’t any idea. I don’t think the trouble in the village was planned. I mean it was because I stepped on that kid that they started after us, thinking we were evil spirits.”

“But I wonder, Peter, if it was necessary to go through the village at all.”

He hadn’t thought of this. “I’m not sure. I was pretty vague about the geography. I figured Osman knew where he was going.”

“We’ll look at a map later,” said Anna. She was suddenly shrewd and capable. He had never thought of her like this, but then he remembered how she had been forced to live, by her wits. There was nothing weak or hesitant about her in a crisis.

“Good plan. We’ll also have a better idea when we get back across the river and find out what happened to…that old devil.”

“Why would they want to kill you?” asked Anna in a matter-of-fact voice, as though it were perfectly natural that there were people in the world who intended to kill him.

He chuckled nervously and handed the tray back to her. “You got me there,” he said. “Later on, maybe, when I have something they want, but not now.”

“Perhaps they don’t want you to get the thing they want in the first place.”

“Something in that.” But he was already thinking back to the day before, to the manager at the Karnak Inn, to Mohammed Ali, to what each had said. “Tell me.” he asked suddenly. “Why did you come over here?”

She looked away, pretended to arrange the dishes on the tray. “I had to,” she said softly.

“You mean you were ordered to?”

“Yes
…
no. Oh, Peter, don’t ask me about it yet. I can’t tell you.”

“Did you tell the manager at the inn that you had gone to Aswân?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think I told him anything.”

That cleared that up, at least, he thought grimly.

“You didn’t want me to follow you?”

“No, Peter.”

“You were afraid of me?”

“Not of you, my darling.” She looked him full in the eyes. “I was afraid of falling in love. I was afraid of what might happen to you because of me.”

“Like last night?”

“Perhaps like last night. I don’t know about that.”

“You think some of your Cairo friends might have got in my way?”

She looked away miserably. “I can’t tell, but you shouldn’t have come. I was only going to stay here a day or two, just long enough to think.”

“To think?”

“About us, Peter. I wanted to be by myself, to make up my mind about so many things. I’m caught.” She said this last abruptly, sharply, desperately. “I can’t save myself or you or anything at all.”

“We can get out of the country, Anna.” He pulled her toward him and their lips met, his passionate and hers oddly passive, as though she had no strength left for loving. He was immediately conscious of this; he let go of her. “You don’t care,” he said.

She ran her hand gently over his face. “Care is not the word,” she said softly. “But I do care, very much, too much for your sake. I don’t want you killed.”

“I don’t think I will be,” he said with more confidence than he felt. “Now will you tell me what you’re mixed up in?”

“Soon,” she said distractedly. “Very soon, I hope.”

“Are
you
in any danger? I mean because of the mess you’re in?”

She smiled. “What a funny word—mess. It means trouble, doesn’t it? No, there is no real danger for me yet. But you must get dressed.” She got to her feet. “The manager found a pair of trousers and a shirt that should fit you. You feel all right, don’t you? Well enough to walk?”

He grinned. “I wouldn’t be here now if I hadn’t been up to a little walking last night.” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. For a moment a dizzying green flood engulfed his eyes. He leaned forward, letting the blood rush to his head. When the room came into proper focus, he stood up. Except for a stiffness in his legs, he felt all right.

While he showered in the antique bathroom, he tried to think of ways for Anna and himself to leave Egypt, but each time a plan presented itself, lack of money made it impractical. He would have to find some way of getting hold of enough dollars to get them out before trouble really started, and serious trouble, he was sure, was about to begin for both of them. The business about the necklace was much too complicated to be successful. Too many people knew about it; too many people wanted it. He had become, almost without being aware of it, a target. A goddamned sitting duck, he muttered to himself as he turned off the water and stepped onto the tile floor of the dusty bathroom.